Spirited Away
by Kapellmeister
Summary: Young Elizabeth celebrates Will's sixteenth birthday with disastrous results.
1. Part One

Spirited Away

Part One

1.

Oh, how Elizabeth Swann abhorred propriety and its wretched chains! As she had grown older it had swooped down upon her like some crotchety, old governess, straight from England. With each added year the casual activities of her childhood became labeled improper. Climbing trees was deemed boyish, as well as beach combing and her unusual interest in navel affairs and the blade. Her romanticized fantasies of pirates were considered worse, _unnatural_ even. But considered even more unnatural for a young lady of her station was her relationship with the young blacksmith apprentice, William Turner.

Remembering the conversation she had held with her father earlier that day, Elizabeth scowled. She'd show them. If her father thought a simple lecture would keep her from visiting Will, especially on the night of his sixteenth birthday, then he was sorely mistaken. She viewed her profile in the looking glass in the corner of her bed chamber.

She was dressed in breeches and a shirt that she had stolen from the hamper, owned undoubtedly by some poor serving man. The breeches were pleasantly snug yet liberating. The white shirt was snug as well, but only in certain areas. She blushed self-consciously, knowing that even in this garb her breasts betrayed her identity as a woman. They had swelled significantly in size since she had turned fourteen, a fact she wasn't sure whether to be proud or embarrassed of. It certainly made disguising herself more difficult. Deciding that it couldn't be helped she stuffed her abundance of light brown curls under a large brimmed hat, grabbed a lumpy package off her bed, and made her way silently to her window.

Snuffing out her candle, she swung her feet out the threshold and unto the overgrown trellis just below with the skill of one experienced with subterfuge. Navigating her way down with the package under one arm, she almost laughed at the simplicity of it. In no time at all her feet had safely touched the spongy earth of the flowerbed, no doubt obliterating some of Gardener's prized roses. Smirking, she tugged on a stray curl and turned towards the darkened town. Against her father's wishes she and Will _were_ going to celebrate his birthday and there was nothing the Governor could do about it.

2.

William Turner scratched Mr. Brown's mule behind its ears absently, reflecting on how abysmal his sixteenth birthday had turned out to be. He had started out his morning with pleasant enough prospects. It was his birthday, after all and the sky was clear and blue with the hope of a new day. But shortly before noon clouds had begun to gather on the horizon, both metaphorically and in reality, as his day began to descend upon a decidedly downward spiral. Mr. Brown, still somewhat lucid in the mornings, started by berating him on the quality of the blades he had been making. When William made the mistake of smarting off and asking how many blades _he_ had made lately, Will received swift punishment. Mr. Brown had not been amused by Will's jibe at all and it had earned Will a nasty whipping and the loss of a month's pocket money.

After Mr. Brown's tirade, the elder man had predictably returned to the bottle, falling into his normal sloth-like state. As his snores filled the smithy, William hammered away at his work, letting his anger flow up his arm and into the beautifully, glowing metal. The steel rang in his ears like the sweetest of songs, dulling his pain.

This manner of stress relief sufficed for awhile, but as the hours passed, Will grew increasingly annoyed. Elizabeth usually visited him by now and her absence irked him more than necessary. He longed for her laugh, her smile, her keen insight and even her pert questions. She was his best friend, and an odd one at that. In the past four years, the young Miss Swann had become quite the fixture at Mr. Brown's smithy. She usually sat wherever she could find space, swinging her legs boyishly, her eyes searching the room with ardent interest. Their activities varied from day to day. When they had been younger an afternoon together had often meant escaping to the beach to search for sea shells or running through her father's garden, climbing apple trees and picking the bountiful fruit. On all of their little adventures, she had been the leader, even if William was two years her senior. She always brushed off his feeble attempts to protect her, not caring that she was the Governor's daughter. In the later years, as Mr. Brown's drinking problem caught up with him, she would just sit with him in the smithy most days, asking him questions and watching as he worked. She never complained of boredom and if the silence between them spanned too long she would sing that horrible pirate song just to annoy him into speech. It was rather endearing actually.

There were many things about Elizabeth that were endearing, he thought wretchedly, but he'd never be for her. It didn't matter that of late his heart would not stop pounding in her presence. It did not matter that recently his stomach flopped when she gifted him with one of her frequent smiles. She was a lady and he was just a miserable blacksmith. Just thinking of the suitors that would line up at her door in a few years made him burn with jealousy.

He wondered if she even noticed.

Continuing to scratch the mule's ears, he wondered if he should give up waiting for Elizabeth and go to bed. It was awfully late and he had to be up early tomorrow morning to fill some of Captain Norrington's orders for the fort. He highly doubted that Mr. Brown would be willing to leave his rum bottle long enough to lend a hand. Will sighed heavily and patted the mule on its nose.

Just as he was standing up, he heard the smithy's door creak open behind him. He turned warily. There Elizabeth stood, dressed in a scandalous, yet not altogether surprising, outfit. She pulled off an oversized hat to liberate her mass of brown curls. They fell to her waist and settled there as she grinned at Will impishly. Will's eyes wandered over her body before he could catch himself, resting on the two obvious swells beneath her shirt. He gulped heavily, reddening in embarrassment. Lately Elizabeth had matured from an uncontrollable, stick of a girl into something more. When she was dressed in such immodest clothing it was harder to ignore.

"Elizabeth," he breathed, "You shouldn't be here."

Even as he spoke the words, he burst into a huge smile. She shouldn't be here, but he was glad that she was. He was forever grateful that Elizabeth would choose him as his friend, especially considering how destitute he truly was.

Her smile grew even more mischievous, at this. Not bothering to keep her voice down, she parried, "I shouldn't be here? Well, I suppose I'd better go then. I'll take your presents with me if you don't mind."

She made to turn towards the door, but before she could reach it Will grabbed her hand, laughing. She began to laugh as well. The noise was beautiful, even more so than the sound of steel being tamed by flames and force. He cherished her laugh, which was as wild and uncontrollable as she was at times. He felt his secret love for her flare in a most unpleasant way. Glad that she could not hear the erratic beating of his heart, he carefully let go of her stick thin arms. Sitting on a stone ledge next to the kiln, he patted the space next to him. She flopped down, causing her curls to bounce in his face. As they brushed against his skin, he caught the faint scent of apple blossoms mixed with the aroma of tea and jam. It was all he could do to keep from bringing a clump of it to his nose and breathing in deeply. Instead he focused on the lumpy package resting in her lap.

"Presents, you say?" His throat was surprisingly dry. He reached for the package, barely containing his eagerness. He hardly ever got presents. Even back in England when his father had still been around, they could scarcely afford to put food on the table, let alone afford for luxuries. Elizabeth had given him his first real present the Christmas he'd arrived in Port Royal. It had been a tiny, leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet._ She had taught him how to read from it. He still had the book under his mattress, grubby and worn from repeated readings.

Her laugh filled the air yet again, interrupting his musings, as she slapped his hand away. "Yes, presents. It's your birthday, isn't it? But no snatching! Where's your sense of decorum, Master Turner?"

The last bit sounded strangely muffled and desperate. Will looked into Elizabeth's eyes with concern and saw only playfulness mirrored there. Their eyes remained locked for a few seconds before deciding that he must have imagined it. He matched her teasing tone.

"So, _Miss_ Swann…." Elizabeth scowled at the use of her formal name. "What'd you bring me?"

"It's Elizabeth, Will." She pursed her lips before continuing. "And as for the presents…. let's see." She reached into her sack, looking as jolly as Saint Nick on Christmas Eve. He was startled to see delicate smatterings of pink appear on her cheeks as she pulled out the first item. Elizabeth was hardly the sort of girl susceptible to fits of blushing. Will remained just as clueless even as she laid out the offering before him, a kerchief, died a bright cherry red. She unfolded it for him and saw the embroidery around the edges. It was rather sloppy and he immediately suspected it to be Elizabeth's work.

"I've noticed how you've taken to wearing kerchiefs," she said as way as explanation, gesturing towards his neck. "I embroidered this one for you. See along the edges? They're flames, like the fire in the kiln."

"You made this for me?" He asked, barely keeping the awe out of his voice. He knew how much Elizabeth hated such girlish things as sewing, yet she had taken time to make such a treasure for him. He was amazed and very flattered.

"Yes," she verified for a second time. "Do you… do you like it much?" Her voice faltered nervously.

"It's wonderful," he confirmed, with a small grin. He reached up and tied it about his neck, marveling in its soft material. "I shall treasure it."

"Good," she said, her confidence apparently back, "I spent forever on the blasted thing." She sniggered at the shocked expression on his face as she cursed.

"And now…" She reached yet again into the bag and pulled out two large bottles of whiskey. "We celebrate."

Will was immediately guarded. "Elizabeth, are you sure that this is such a good idea?" His thoughts immediately strayed to the horrible Mr. Brown, sleeping off his booze upstairs. Brown had done horrible things before in his perpetually inebriated state but he hadn't always been like that. He had once been a happy successful man. The drinking hadn't come until that death of his wife. It was the continued drinking of that rum that had addled his brains in the end. Will hunted for any excuse not to take a sip. "What would your father say?"

"Pox on my father's opinion," she stated, further surprising William. "Anyway, it's your birthday. Father always lets me drink spirits on _my _birthday."

"Heavily watered down, no doubt."

Elizabeth glowered at him from over the bottles. She flounced up, "Very well, I fear I shall have to take my leave then, Master Turner." She made it half way to the door before William stopped her again.

"Maybe just a little," he said.

Elizabeth grinned spectacularly.

3.

Two hours later both bottles of whiskey had been drained and Will and Elizabeth lay in each other's arms, staring at the ceiling of the smithy, giggling like school girls. They had started out merely sipping from the bottles, wincing as the bitter liquid burned their throats. But soon that burning had dulled and all that was left was a warm, pleasant feeling in the pits of their stomachs, working its way through their whole bodies down to their toes. They took large swigs, toasting everybody from the king of England down to bloody Mr. Brown's mule. The bottles had dried up far too quickly for their tastes, but the effects still lingered. Will felt amazingly giddy, the girl of his dreams in his arms, laughing at all of his antics. His earlier concerns felt distant and imaginary now. He couldn't remember why he had been so upset in the first place.

"'Zat one looks a bit like my old gov'ness, ol' miss whatzername, ya know?" Elizabeth gesticulated madly as she slurred her words, tracing invisible pictures in the grain of the wood. Will nodded fervently, even though he hadn't the foggiest what 'ol' miss whatzername' looked like. Just as long as Elizabeth smiled again, he was happy. As though reading his mind she grinned, snuggling up closer to Will and adding, "You're very muscular, William. Handsome-like. 'Ave I ever told you zat, Mahster Turner?"

Will felt himself flush gloriously. "No."

"Well, you are." Her eyes became surprisingly clear. She turned her face towards his, barely inches away. He could feel the warmth of her breath. It was more intoxicating that any spirits that they had been drinking. "I rather fancy you, Will. A lot. Far too much."

"Me too… Elizabeth." Her lips called to him like a siren. He felt himself longing to kiss her. He knew that he could not have her in the long run but now…. now they had each other. He loved her. He always had.

"Elizabeth," he repeated, closing the gap between their lips.

At that very second the doors to the smithy slammed open, startling the two teenagers apart. Elizabeth swayed to her feet, just as two lines of soldiers stormed in, followed by her frantic father dressed in simply his night shirt. She saw with a smirk that he had left his large powdered wig at home.

Will, too, climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall for support as his world swirled about him. His eyes finally came into focus on the Governor's face. What he saw there filled him with dread. He watched with trepidation as the expression on his countenence turned from one of fear, to relief, and finally to anger. The elder man's eyes took in everything from the empty whiskey bottles to Elizabeth's disheveled and dirty menswear. When he sighted the two imprints of where they had been laying together on the ground, his face turned a delicate shade of puce. He grabbed his daughter roughly by the shoulders and began to guide her from the shop. His shouts filled the smithy.

"What were you thinking, girl? You deliberately disobeyed me! I was scared to death waking up and finding you gone. But then I realized where you would be. Where is your sense of decorum? Your propriety? Your pride? Lying with common street urchins like some strumpet! Your mother would be ashamed."

Will winced at the Governor's slur of his station but he knew that he deserved it. He glanced down shamed faced. What he hadn't expected was for Elizabeth to whirl around to face her father and begin shouting back.

"IT WASN'T LIKE THAT AT ALL!"

Her father scowled, "Then what was it like? I smell spirits on your breath. Do you know what this would do to your reputation if this leaked out?"

For once Elizabeth was silent. The Governor continued, "Now, gentlemen," he gestured to the officers, "Please escort Miss Swann back to the manor."

One of the men took Elizabeth's shoulders and guided her out of the smithy. Just as they reached the door, she chanced one backward glance, her eyes full of longing. Will met her gaze for one moment before his line of vision was blocked by the Governor's form. Elizabeth disappeared out into the night.

Governor's Swann's voice was a low rumbling, laced with anger, in Will's ears. The boy could not look in his face without flinching at what he saw there. He knew that the Governor could easily have him sent very far away. He could make sure that his daughter would never see him again. Will knew he would deserve it.

"I never want you seeing my daughter again. You aren't good for her? Do you understand me boy?"

Will nodded. The warm feeling of the whiskey had begun to fade away. His head rather hurt actually.

If he had been looking at the Governor's face he would have seen it soften a little. "Do what's best for her, you hear?"

Will nodded again, fighting off traitorous tears.

"Good boy," the Governor patted his shoulder, before sweeping out of the smithy, taking his men with him. "Give Mr. Brown my regards."

Will slid to his knees, breathing hard. He had suddenly remembered why his day had been so horrid.

4.

Will didn't see Elizabeth again for some months. It was as though her father had spirited her away, never to be heard from again. He heard word that she had a new, strict governess minding her now. Whether this was true or not did not matter for Will had seen no sign of her, even in the back of her father's carriage. At first Will had missed her desperately but as the days spanned from weeks into months, the bitter burn of her absence dulled into indifference. All he had to sooth him now was the music of the steel as he beat it into submission.

He wore Elizabeth's kerchief everyday.

One day, five months after his birthday, he heard quite the fuss outside his smithy. He set down his tongs and rushed to see what was the matter. He stepped outside into the sunlight and glanced down the street. His heart leaped as he saw Governor's carriage prattle to a stop outside a nearby fabric shop. He stepped forward instinctively, holding his breath as a serving man opened the carriage door.

Out stepped Elizabeth.

Only it wasn't his Elizabeth. This Elizabeth was as distant as a goddess. Dressed in a gorgeously elaborate gown, her hair was pulled up ornately, just a few ringlets escaping. Her face was powdered lightly and she walked like a lady, nose in the air and as prim as a china doll. A fine gold chain hung from her neck, what ever bauble hung at the end was tucked in her bodice. He felt his heart drop. No, this wasn't his Elizabeth at all.

Elizabeth turned slightly and saw him. She opened her mouth a little as though she were about to shout a greeting but then a stern looking woman stepped out of the carriage behind her. Her mouth rapidly shut at the woman's appearance.

He took a few steps forward, uncertainly, forgetting her father's warning.

"Elizabeth."

Her head inclined slightly, she merely nodded, "Good day, Master Turner." She bit her lip and turned away as though simply uttering his name burned her.

Then the woman guided her into the shop, casting a condescending glance over her shoulder.

Will was left to stand there. He felt as though he had been slapped. Elizabeth had been his best friend. He had loved her. Surely he merited more then a 'Good day' after all these months. His blood pounding in his ears he tore off her scarf and left it at the foot of the carriage, storming back into the welcoming heat of his shop.

As he pounded away at the metal, he felt his eyes prickle.

But he wouldn't let anybody see his tears.

5.

Elizabeth curled up in her bed, clutching the handkerchief she had sewed Will all those months ago. When she had seen it, discarded in the mud like some worthless rubbish, her heart broke.

She buried her head in her pillow. She could not help but to cry, but she wouldn't let anybody see her tears.


	2. Part Two

Spirited Away

Part Two

1.

Christmastime had snuck up on Port Royal more quickly than Elizabeth could have ever imagined. Not that it brought much of a change to the tropical port city; the temperature had hardly fluctuated at all from the harsh summer temperatures of months previously. Elizabeth's ridiculously elaborate dresses were still uncomfortably warm and the hairs on the back of her neck were eternally sticky with perspiration and powder. Yet despite the sweltering heat, Christmas preparations were underway. The Governor's Manor was decorated in splendid garlands of red and gold and while there were no traditional Christmas trees to be found in the Caribbean, the servants had adorned a rather magnificent palm plant with gold baubles and tea lights for the sitting room's centerpiece. It was an odd sight to be sure; festive wreaths hanging in each window while a warm southern breeze blew the lush, green sea grass just meters away. It was a definite change from the London Christmases of her youth. She vividly remembered the biting cold and the satisfying, messiness of well-trodden snow in the city. Christmas celebrations in the time before her mother's death had been particularly grand. The Swann's had always hosted an impressive ball, with all of London's high society in attendance.

Their Christmas celebrations had been considerably smaller since their settlement in Jamaica. They were typically family affairs, although Captain Norrington was usually invited to their dinners. The evening consisted of a large dinner before retiring to a drawing room for gift exchanging and other cultivated merry making. It was all a fairly refined and dignified affair. Elizabeth hated it. During her previous four winters in Port Royal, she had normally celebrated the holidays with somebody else as well, but they currently weren't on speaking terms.

Elizabeth heaved a great sigh as she continued to work on her embroidery. It was an ugly little sampler, eventually meant to be sewn into a pillow. The project was a waste of time in her opinion but her newest governess, a tyrant of a woman by the name of Madame Ann Gifford, insisted that all distinguished young women such as her self should be capable of superior needlework. Apparently it was one of the marks of a fine wife. Elizabeth scowled down at her needle. As if she had the intentions of becoming anyone's wife anytime soon! She was merely fourteen, after all, although her fifteenth birthday was rapidly approaching. She sighed heavily once again, noting how she had come to dislike birthdays in general. They only brought trouble, heartbreak and additional responsibilities.

She continued sewing a bothersome little songbird situated in the corner of her sampler. It was a garish, robin's egg blue that made her eyes hurt. Momentarily looking away from the offending creature, she remembered her other little sewing project, the one hidden under her pillow upstairs.

In the six months she had been away from Will, Elizabeth had been miserable. She still remembered the night of Will's birthday clearly, despite the large portion of it that she had spent intoxicated. It had been absolutely wonderful in the earlier part of that evening. She had felt so strong, so powerful and oh so rebellious dressed as a man… like the Greek goddess Artemis on the hunt. Or maybe even a Pirate King. That was a daring thought. It was a welcome freedom from the monotony of her normal life. Who wanted to be a Lady when there was so much more out there for her to explore? She was with her best friend in the world and they were having the time of their lives. Elizabeth sometimes imagined, looking back upon that night, that they may have even kissed. She wasn't entirely sure. Everything had been so blissfully foggy. The thought made her heart beat faster nonetheless.

But then her father had stormed in with what had then seemed like half the British Navy. The night had taken a decidedly horrid turn for the worse after that.

She remembered listening to her father shout as her maids bathed her from behind a dressing screen, rubbing her skin raw as they scrubbed off the dirt. The spices in the bath water had burned her nose and her eyes watered. What hurt even worst was what her father had to say. It was angriest she had ever seen him. His face had been a dangerous puce and his lips were white rimmed from anger. He threatened that if he ever saw Elizabeth and Will together again he'd ship her off to a finishing school in England or send William to the Americas; whichever was quickest. The same would hold true if he did not see some improvement in her sense of decorum. The very next morning he had announced the arrival of Madame Gifford, who had immediately torn the despondent girl apart. Elizabeth had been under virtual house arrest, studying under the vile woman, until a month ago.

Madame Gifford had deemed it time to make her first public outing since her tutelage. Elizabeth had been unbelievably anxious. What would she do if she saw Will? He didn't know of her father's ultimatum. Would she be able to ignore him? While she longed to see him, she prayed she wouldn't have to test her self restraint.

Her prayers went unanswered; almost as soon as she set foot out of her father's carriage, she sighted him out of the corners of her eye. There he stood, just a few meters away, looking as red faced as always, his eyes burning strangely with some expression that she could not identify. He was breathless and, if she was not mistaken, very startled by her feminine appearance. His head tilted to the side, he contemplated her stately exterior in a most critical fashion. The scrutiny made her a bit uncomfortable, but it didn't matter. This was Will Turner. Her Will.

Just as she was about to shout his name, however, she had felt Madame Gifford's hand on her shoulder. In that shuddering moment, she remembered her father's threat. With great effort, she snapped her jaw shut.

Will had taken a few uncertain steps forward. Elizabeth longed to rush forward and meet him but all that propriety allowed her was a mere, "Good Day," before she was hurriedly escorted into the bowels of the fabric shop.

Seeing the look of agony in Will's eyes as Elizabeth was rushed away was unbearable. What was even worse was arriving back at her carriage and finding his birthday scarf crumpled in the mud like used parchment. The sight had brought tears of frustration into her eyes. This was _wrong._

She had tucked the grubby cloth into her pristine reticule, that day, determined that somehow she would make things _right._ Since that night it had been her private project, mending the kerchief and using her newly acquired knowledge to make it even grander than before. She would attempt to deliver it to Will for Christmas. Maybe it would help him see her side of things. Just maybe it would make things better.

She was now sewing the poor, blue bird on her sampler with such violence that Madame Gifford had glanced up from her own piece of work. She regarded her pupil with beady eyes before barking, "Were you raised by heathens, Miss Swann? What did that poor jay do to deserve your spite? Be gentle with the thread!"

This only made Elizabeth yank the needle harder, so that it jabbed into her thumb.

She immediately bit back a curse of "Blast", glancing nervously in Gifford's direction. She had cursed once before in Madame Gifford's presence and she hadn't fared well. However, Madame Gifford just sat there looking smug. "Did I not tell you to be more light fingered, Miss Swann?"

Elizabeth scowled and watched the blood ooze out of the tiny pinprick. A drop of it dripped on her cloth, a vibrant red spot on the otherwise immaculate piece of fabric.

Elizabeth quite felt that she liked it.

2.

That night Captain Norrington graced the Governor's Manor for dinner. He was very sharp looking even without his military finery, Elizabeth noted from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. Well, sharp for a creampuff anyway, she mentally amended. He still looked absolutely ridiculous in that powdered wig of his. She sniffed, having just escaped Madame Gifford and her personal maid, Estrella. She felt a bit absurd herself; the two had stuffed a particularly outlandish dress over her head before she could run away. They had also piled her elaborate curls on the top of her head in a most impractical style, powdering her face and dabbing her neck with light perfume. She was grateful that rouge and other face paints were considered unsuitable for girls of her age otherwise she was sure that she would have been sitting at their mercy for hours.

In hindsight, maybe Norrington's wig wasn't nearly as outrageous as her outfit was. She wondered if he would fancy a trade.

With a sigh, she watched Norrington's retreating figure. She figured that she should descend down to greet her father's guest soon, although she didn't really want to. Lately Norrington had been acting rather oddly himself. When he had sometimes kept her company in her youth, Elizabeth would beg for stories of the sea and the young captain would generally oblige. He seemed to think her fervor rather amusing, actually, occasionally commenting on how it was a pity that sprightly, young girls such as herself could not join the Navy. But since her fourteenth birthday, and particularly since her 'transformation' into a young lady, he had shied away from telling her these stories, looking uneasy and hesitant. He no longer teased her with impish pet names. Instead he was sentimental, declaring that she looked 'lovely' or some other such simpering fiddle faddle. Coupled with an appreciative downward glance towards her bodice, it was downright infuriating at times. She dreaded having to interact with this peculiar, new Norrington. If this was what it meant to grow up, she wished she never had to.

Bracing herself, she grabbed the hem of her skirt in a most unladylike way, and began her journey down the staircase. How she longed just to slide down the banister as she would have done once upon a time, a time before the crotchety virtue of propriety had made her ugly face known.

After an unseemly amount of careful stepping, she arrived at the bottom of the staircase into the elaborately decorated foyer. She turned into the dining room just as she heard her father gallantly apologize for her apparent lack of punctuality.

"I'm afraid I must apologize for Elizabeth, James. She isn't normally this untimely. I wonder if she is feeling quite un…."

He trailed off as he caught sight of Elizabeth lingering in the doorway, looking awkward as she tugged on a loose curl. He burst into a pleasant smile, seeming sincerely startled, yet pleased, by her appearance.

"Oh my, Elizabeth! You look lovely."

Elizabeth did her best not to wince outwardly. Lovely? Was he looking at the same gaudy dress she had seen in the looking glass earlier that evening? The same dress with all those silly frills and flounces, which _were,_ apparently, the latest fashion in London?

Unfortunately, Norrington too rounded upon her. She watched as his expression turned from one of shock to admiring contemplation. Finally he smiled. "Indeed, Miss Swann, you seem to be growing lovelier by the day."

Before, if Norrington were to call her Miss Swann, he would have received a harsh lecture from her, insisting to be called Elizabeth. Now, under her father's wary gaze, he received a more demure response.

"You are too kind, Captain," she responded, feeling wretched. Why had she let them tame her like this?

Her father was looking positively ecstatic over Norrington's shoulder. She had no doubt that Madame Gifford would soon be earning a pay raise. Meanwhile Norrington appeared a bit taken aback. To his credit, the naval man recovered his wits quickly enough.

"Miss Swan?" he queried, good naturedly. "Could this possibly be the same girl I caught in an attempt to erm… what was it… oh yes, 'commandeer' my ship a few years back with young Master Turner?"

Will's name cut her like a blade. She did her best to hide the pain with a light laugh. Thankfully one of the servants saved her from having to respond by announcing that dinner was ready. To her embarrassment, the good captain pulled out her chair for her as though she were incapable of doing it herself. She thanked him politely but inwardly she was gnashing her teeth.

She spent most of the supper silently chewing her food as the two men talked. Her mind kept straying from that incident of her youth that Norrington had mentioned to Will's scarf upstairs. She remembered 'commandeering' Captain Norrington's ship vividly but the clarity of the memory only added to her desperate longing to speak with Will.

The only time she emerged from her silent musing was when she heard the mention of pirates in Captain Norrington's conversation. Elizabeth feigned disinterest while listening intently, chewing on a bit of chicken and watching Norrington from the corner of her eye. Apparently a pirate vessel with black sails had sacked a fishing port on a nearby island. The pirates he described were nothing like the romanticized ones that she had often sang of. The city was in ruins, with forty men killed and several women otherwise compromised. Elizabeth didn't like pondering what that could mean. She would have listened further but then her father noticed her rapt gaze and promptly changed the subject.

She continued to chew her chicken as her father spoke on the more pleasant topic of their imminent Christmas feast. Elizabeth returned to pondering her own thoughts, her fingers shaking slightly as she gripped her fork. Had Will been right to hate pirates the way he did? Were they really just murdering scoundrels with boats, as he had always insisted? They had always seemed so jolly and free spirited to her but hearing Norrington speak, it sounded as though pirates were scum straight from Hell….

She shivered, wondering what it'd be like meeting a pirate.

For the first time in fourteen years it wasn't a shiver of excitement.

3.

Norrington had left mercifully early. After a rather embarrassing farewell, Elizabeth had managed to run away to her room. There she contemplated herself in the looking glass before calling her maid to help her change for bed. What had altered about her so significantly in the past couple of months? Did something as immaterial as London fashion make her a better daughter? Did it come with her new body, shapelier in its transformation into womanhood? She stared back at her large brown eyes situated her rather long, tanned face. She would never call her face 'lovely'. Her chin was stubborn and her visage much too swarthy. As for her body, she was far too tall and lanky. Then why did everybody stare as though entranced? It didn't make sense. She longed for Will's opinion and bit her lip. She stood there, watching as her lip turned a pleasant shade of rouge before finally sliding the ornate combs from her hair. Her curls bounced agreeably to her waist as though glad to have escaped their confines. She stared at her self for a few moments longer before calling for Estrella.

That night before curling up in bed, she pulled Will's kerchief out from under her pillow. She was far too tired to work on it that evening but it was almost complete anyway. Elizabeth would most certainly have it completed in time for Christmas. Then she would find some way to deliver it to Will.

She traced the flame pattern delicately with her fore finger before bringing it to her nose and breathing in its scent. It still smelled of Will and the smithy. Smiling slightly, she laid it out upon her pillow. She fingered it reverently once more before laying her head upon it and shutting her eyes.

Still breathing in Will's scent, Elizabeth fell asleep.

4.

That night when Weatherby Swann check upon his daughter he found her thankfully already asleep. He watched her for several moments from the doorway, marveling at how much like her mother the girl was. She was clutching that grubby red scarf he had seen her working on in secret again. He had inspected it closely once before whilst she slept. The Governor wasn't a simpleton. He had immediately taken note of the flames and the W.T. initials. This was obviously a token for the young master Turner.

He sighed, knowing how much this was hurting his daughter. He knew, however, that this would spare her heartbreak in the end.

The daughter of a Governor would never be able to wed a blacksmith.


	3. Part Three

Spirited Away

Part Three

1.

Will sat up on his scratchy, straw mattress, feeling utterly despondent. It was Christmas Eve and here he was, watching the shadows his candle threw out dance eerily on the walls of his bedroom. He was alone, Mr. Brown having retired hours before sundown without the slightest acknowledgment of the impending winter holiday. The smithy was entirely lacking in Christmas spirit, not so much as a decorative bauble or sprig of holly in sight. Thus far he had received not a single gift, nor did he expect to. The only person he knew that could've afforded such luxuries was far off in her manor, no doubt singing merry Christmas carols as she danced with a certain lucky captain.

Will couldn't help but to feel bitter when he thought about the Governor's daughter. It had been almost half a year since she had addressed him properly. He had given up hoping that she'd speak with him now and tried to avoid crossing her path as much as possible. He didn't understand what change had come over her, but recently she had become as distant and regal as royalty… a bit conceited really. She had become everything that he knew she had tried desperately _not_ to become. It didn't make any sense to him. What could have triggered such an extensive metamorphosis?

Despite Will's attempts to the contrary, however, he had seen Elizabeth earlier that very day while running errands for the perpetually inebriated Mr. Brown. She was just stepping back into her carriage after some last minute Christmas shopping at a small book and paper store a few streets over. Her appearance had been spectacular as usual, fully decked out for the holidays with green and red ribbons tied into her abundance of brown curls. Her dress had been particularly sophisticated, accentuating her curves in folds of expensive, imported cloth. A tidy little package was tucked under her arm and her maid followed her, holding a bolt of vivid green fabric from a nearby sewing shop. Regardless of the deliveries he had yet to make, Will stood frozen on the corner, his own forgotten packages piled in his arms up to his chin.

He watched as Elizabeth directed the maid into the carriage ahead of her. The maid seemed to object and he observed as the two appeared to exchange a few sharp words before the older woman finally ducked into the compartment. Will was pleasantly startled. It seemed as though Elizabeth still had some fire left within her, something he had begun to doubt these past months.

He was still standing there, his mouth slightly agape, when Elizabeth glanced in his direction, seemingly by chance.

The expressions that played across her face then had been so curious, so peculiar, that Will could not for the life of him label their names. He could read her uncertainty in the tautness of her countenance, but not much more. He watched as her mouth opened the tiniest of fractions and he instinctively stepped forward, her name poised on his lips.

But then her maid called from within the carriage once more. In that instant her eyes became veiled, lips pressed together firmly. She gave him the tiniest of nods before sweeping into the carriage. The ornate door snapped shut abruptly behind her before the horse-pulled contraption prattled off in the opposite direction down the cobble stone path, leaving a perplexed William in its wake.

Thinking back upon those memories, Will frowned. In his mind he envisioned Elizabeth. He saw the confident tilt of her chin and the medley of emotions that constantly seemed to dance within her eyes of late. She had always been very pretty, but she had grown beautiful this past year. The distant, regal creature she had become was stunning as well, perhaps even more so. He glanced down at his fingers where they curled anxiously in the material of his sheets. Elizabeth's skin was soft and powdered like tea cakes. His own hands were rough and bronzed from hard labor. He raised one to his face, inspecting it calmly in the candle light. His nails were neatly trimmed short, but there was always a layer of grime beneath them that he had never been able to wash away. Sighing, he ran the hand through his sooty locks. He immediately found fault with them as well. They were tangled and disheveled, so unlike Elizabeth's perfectly cascading ringlets. He was pitifully imperfect, unlike the refined men who would become Elizabeth's suitors. An image of Captain Norrington flashed before his eyes and he felt yet another pang of jealousy. How he wished that he was cultured and of a high status! Perhaps then Elizabeth would deign to give him the time of day.

Will sat up straighter on the mattress. Was this how Elizabeth saw him, as something imperfect and unworthy of her attention? He certainly wouldn't blame her if she did. He had been in the Governor's manor several times before, back when the two of them were still young and those sorts of things didn't matter. He remembered standing in awe, spinning about the foyer several times as to sufficiently take in the grandness of it all. The floors, stairs and banister were all polished and wooden, glinting marvelously in the sunlight. It was so different from the coarse, untreated wood that he was use to. He remembered lightly joking to Elizabeth that there would be no need to worry about splinters in this house hold. Then there were the paintings and the tapestries, all elaborate and no doubt very costly. If one glanced up, they would see the majestically wrought chandelier. He had been amazed by the metal working of that chandelier for many years before he crafted one similar to it for a rich naval officer on a neighboring island. Still, the Swann's chandelier was a splendid piece of work.

His own living quarters paled in comparison to even one of Elizabeth's lesser stately drawing rooms. A tiny space, it was predominately taken up by his lumpy, straw mattress. The only other thing that fit into the cramped quarters was a tiny hope chest that contained all of his worldly processions, all acquired since his arrival in Port Royal. The only item he had brought with him from England had been lost in the passage when his merchant vessel had been attacked by pirates.

He still wondered whatever had become of that medallion. Had it been used by some filthy pirate to pay for his rum and pleasurable company? Or had it been forever lost to the crushing, black oblivion of Davy Jones's locker? His memory of that day remained foggy. All that he could recall was the feeling of intense terror as he fumbled desperately with an oversized rapier. Sometime during the battle, a terrible explosion rendered the ship to pieces. He had been thrown back in a volley of fire and splintered wood, losing consciousness shortly afterwards.

The next thing he remembered was waking up and looking into the eyes of an angel. The angel had said that she would be watching over him. Her eyes were wide and brown, conveying her sincerity. Her presence had been a comforting notion at the time and he had very quickly given himself over to sleep. He almost wished that he hadn't. His dreams were restless ones, filled with leering, scurvy faces and the harsh, metallic clang of steel scraping against steel. He watched the battle over and over again in his mind, feeling more helpless than ever. Thankfully his imaginings eventually began to fade, dimming into a pleasant grey peace. The angel had been there again when he reawakened. She told him that her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Swann.

Will shook his head like a cow flicking at flies, shoving these memories to the back of his mind. Instead he continued to survey his room. His twisted stockings were haphazardly piled in one corner, as were his dusty shoes. Bits of wayward straw had migrated from his mattress into random filthy dust balls, scattered at sporadic intervals across the floor. His hope chest was over flowing with unfolded clothes and random trinkets that he had come to own these past few years. They had mostly been gifts from Elizabeth, sea shells she had collected from the shore or bits of cloth she thought that he might like. He suddenly remembered the scarf she had fashioned him for his birthday. He regretted throwing it away now and wondered what had become of it.

His room was filthy, and hardly thinking about his actions, he slipped to his knees and began scooping up the straw with his hands. He managed to gather up a large pile and swept it into a corner. He contemplated it for a moment before moving on to pick up his stockings, smoothing them out as best he could. After several moments he admitted defeat; the wrinkles were resolute in their existence. He straightened up his shoes a bit. They were pitifully well worn, the soles unbelievably thin. Shooting them a disparaging glance he continued on to the straightening out his sheets. He lifted the mattress a bit to tuck the sheets under.

Then he saw it.

He extended his arm to its limit and closed his hand about the tiny, leather bound book that was hidden beneath the bed. He lifted it to his face, blowing off the dust. As words became legible, he let out a sigh of wonder, for written in faded silver letters was the title.

He let the mattress fall to the ground in a cloud of dirt, leaning back on his haunches. He fingered the letters slowly.

_Romeo and Juliet._

This was the novel that Elizabeth had first taught him to read from. This was his first Christmas gift ever. He saw the jolly, ten-year-old Elizabeth in his mind, smiling as a blush rose to her already scarlet-tinged cheeks. She had been so excited to have a pupil and he had been equally as excited to learn from his teacher. He frowned a bit, noticing the torn binding. The book was heavily abused from its years of use and then of neglect. Lifting himself back onto the mattress he opened the play. The pages were yellowing and the print was smudged so that he had to squint to make the type decipherable. He brought the page even closer to his face so that his nose nearly brushed up against the paper.

Then by the flickering candle light, Will began to read.

And an hour later, he had not stopped. His candle had burned down a good bit, leaving not so much a pool as a sea of wax at its base. He was very quickly beginning to sympathize with the hapless Romeo in a way that he never had before. He found himself longing for Elizabeth to lean out of _her_ window and proclaim _her_ love. He longed for her to deny her name and station. He longed for her to simply notice him. His eyes lingered on Juliet's line for what felt like the thousandth time. He tried to hear it come from Elizabeth's lips but, alas, he could not. Perhaps his mind was too worn to continue his imaginings. It was late after all.

He closed the book delicately and set it atop his still over stuffed hope chest. Lying back in his sheets, he tried to block out Mr. Brown's monstrous snoring from the next room over. A part of him wanted to stay up longer. A part of him was convinced that Elizabeth would come. She always had before.

But things were different now, he reminded himself, rolling over.

He closed his eyes and buried his head into his pillow. Where was his angel now, he wondered, before drifting into a restless, disjointed slumber.

2.

It was a short while later that Will woke up to the squeal of the smithy door and the mule's alarmed bray. He sat up quickly, a million different scenarios racing through his mind in just that brief moment. The sky was still an inky black outside his tiny window. It wasn't near morning time yet, so it couldn't be Mr. Brown or some esteemed customer making that racket. Were there thieves out in the smithy? Drunken vandals? Pirates?

Elizabeth?

He leapt from his bed, flinging the lid of his hope chest open. Resting amid piles of breaches and shirts was his dagger, one of his first commendable creations. He grabbed it and a spare candle. Quickly lighting it, he darted out of his room, his tiny light illuminating the way.

The smithy was silent and dark when he reached it. He frowned as his candle cast a murky light about the room. The mule, still firmly harnessed, was calming down, although its ears kept flicking from side to side in agitation. Will had been expecting something much more climatic after all that noise; a full scale attack upon the shop had seemed likely. Yet there appeared to be nothing here. He began a closer inspection of the room, slowly spinning about shrewdly so that his light filled every nook and cranny. He suspected that the party guilty of all that ruckus was still hidden there some where. After all, he hadn't heard the door creak shut.

Midway through his rotation, Will noticed something that hadn't been there before. His frown deepened as began to walk forward, uncertainty reflected in his cautious gait. In the flickering light it appeared to be a tiny package, wrapped neatly with brown paper and twine. As he was reaching out to take it, he heard a clatter from behind him.

He spun around in time to see a shadowy figure make a sprint for the door. All thoughts of the package forgotten, Will dropped his dagger and darted forth, the candle wobbling precariously in his hand. Hot wax dripped onto his knuckles, causing him to flinch. Ignoring the sting, he made a grab for the culprit with his free hand. He was startled when he found himself clutching a handful of thick curls. The person he had caught let out a girlish shriek as she was spun around. And then, all too suddenly, his angel was staring him in the face.

Will nearly let her go immediately. There Elizabeth was, dressed scandalously in a thin night shift of all things. She was refusing to meet his gaze, her deep brown eyes determinedly studying the floor as she bit her lip.

Will stared for a bit longer, slowly letting go of her hair. To his surprise she didn't bolt, instead her face rose to gaze into his. She seemed uncertain of what to do and her lips twitched several times as though she was struggling with what to say. Will didn't know how he could break the silence either. He longed to rush forward and embrace her tightly, to murmur into her curls how much he had missed her these past months, but he didn't know how this new Elizabeth would react. Instead he just watched her, rememorizing her face. Unless he was very much mistaken she was doing the same.

Finally he said the only thing that seemed appropriate.

"You shouldn't be here… _Miss Swann_."

Elizabeth's face fell, her eyes quickly darting back to the ground. She bit her lip painfully and her shoulders began to quiver. Will was amazed by her reaction and was even more taken aback when her voice came back choked with tears.

"It's Elizabeth, Will."

And then she turned and ran out of the smithy, a silken shadow against the darkness. Will watched as she ran in the direction of the manor until she disappeared. He did not give chase.

3.

Governor Weatherby Swann watched as his daughter crept in through the servants' entrance, slipping up a side stair into the upper hall. He sighed, listening as her slippered feet padded into her bed room. Her door grated shut, piercing the still night air. He could picture her in his mind, wincing at the harsh noise. It almost made him chuckle. Resisting that urge, he waited for a moment until he couldn't hear her anymore. After a couple minutes the sound of rustling ceased and all was silent.

Listening a bit longer, he lifted himself from his chair heavily. His daughter's tenacity continued to amaze him. He knew where she got it from, but it certainly wasn't from him.

Sighing yet again, he turned on his heels and followed her up the stairs. He had known that Elizabeth would try to sneak out that night. He could hardly blame her. She was rather attached to the young Master Turner. Hopefully this little venture had gotten all rebelliousness out of her system. He could only hope.

Climbing back into his bed, he continued to ponder the problem of his daughter. Finally he had decided that he wouldn't mention it this time. Some would frown upon that decision, but it was Christmas Eve after all.

4.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when Will finally opened the package. He had merely stared at it for the longest of times, working up the courage to undo the twine. His unexpected visit from Elizabeth had left him completely baffled. Did this mean that Elizabeth had not completely forgotten him? He thought back to his birthday all those months ago. He remembered the Governor telling him that he must never see Elizabeth again. What if he had made a similar threat towards Elizabeth? That might explain the queer looks that she had given him whenever they encountered one another in the streets.

Sitting on his mattress, Will took a deep breath as he finally unwrapped the gift. He lifted out the tiny, red square of fabric. A small grin started to spread across his face. It was his kerchief, resurrected from the grave!

He inspected it with trembling fingers, admiring the tiny precise stitches. They curled about the fabric, perfectly mimicking the flames of the kiln. He felt a pleasant warmth begin to spread throughout his entire body just looking at the scarf, although he was uncertain if that was the fabric's effect or something else entirely. He reflected that Elizabeth must have spent many an hour working on the cloth. That was incredible when as a rule she abhorred sewing of any kind. This only intensified his state of awe. Tracing the flame pattern with his forefinger, he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of jam and apple blossoms, with the faintest whiff of tea. In short it smelled of Elizabeth.

Bringing it away from his face, he contemplated it a bit longer. Finally, he tied the square of cloth around his neck. With a rush of satisfaction he realized that it felt as though it belonged there.

Rising up to meet the breaking day, Will vowed that the next time he saw Elizabeth he would set things right. He had to.

A/N: Just one more chapter to go, guys! I know its short but it was all meant to be a one shot in the first place. sighs I'll try to get the last bit to you quickly but there are no guarantees with the imminent release of Harry Potter 7. :-) Believe it or not, I spent forever on this chapter. I was very uncertain of what to do with it. I hope that doesn't show too much. As always, I appreciate your reviews. They make me feel important.


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